


Review

by yeaka



Series: Eriador Lights [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, Lapdance, M/M, Sex Club, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 05:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11479155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel insists he could put on a good show, provided Erestor will show him.





	Review

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set in the same modern-AU as [Chary Champagne](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7522141/), wherein Glorfindel was a bartender at Erestor’s sex club, but it’s not necessary to read that for this. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Erestor’s always the last to leave, so it isn’t particularly difficult for Glorfindel to wait the rest of the staff out—he doesn’t want any interruptions for this. When his bar’s cleaned and he’s changed out of his uniform into jeans and an open button-up, he checks the back for any lingering employees. He’s not surprised to find none left—when the last shift gets off at six a.m., most want to rush straight home.

Glorfindel doesn’t have _Erestor_ at home, so he’s fine staying, waltzing over to the manager’s office while the lights are still on. He raps on the door before he enters, and Erestor’s smooth voice calls, “Come in.”

Glorfindel does, only to find Erestor finishing up—his desk cleared for the day and his shoulders are shrugging on his jacket. He stands by a file cabinet along the wall and sweeps his dark hair back, adjusting his collar. His black jeans are even tighter than Glorfindel’s, his navy turtleneck pulled taut across his chest. Long and lean, he looks like someone that should be out on the floor instead of wasted in an office. But Glorfindel’s just a bartender; he doesn’t get to make personnel decisions. 

He shuts the door behind himself and is already heading to one of the wide chairs before Erestor’s desk when Erestor greets, “Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel plops down, lounges back, casually spreads his knees and starts: “I don’t think I’m being properly utilized.”

Erestor turns. One sharp brow rises on his handsome face, his collected expression otherwise unaffected by the statement. His eyes pause to take in Glorfindel’s bared stomach and chest, but then they’ve risen again to his eyes, and they stay there, despite all Glorfindel’s done to keep his body irresistible. Finally, Erestor drawls, “I think you’re doing well enough. You get as many tips as the servers, and you don’t even sleep with the patrons.”

Cocking a little grin, Glorfindel pushes, “So imagine what I would make if I did.”

Instantly, Erestor frowns. His cool exterior often wears a subtle one, but this is a distinct downturn that Glorfindel mentally files away. It’s more proof of his working theory: that Erestor doesn’t actually _want_ him flirting with anyone else, even if it’s purely for a job. He works around that, offering, “Or perhaps I could simply join the stage show? You could use another dancer.”

Erestor lifts a brow, then, of all things, protests, “You aren’t qualified.”

Glorfindel came in ready to demonstrate, and insists, “I can do well enough to warrant a try. But I can give you a preview right now, if you want a test run.”

For a long moment, Erestor is silent, probably weighing out propriety despite their place of business. Then there’s the notion of taking advantage of a worker, but Glorfindel tries to make his confidence clear on his face; he’s more than willing. And he’s been hinting since the first day he was hired. He still can’t understand why they haven’t progressed further. He chalks it up to Erestor’s icy visage, and that’s something he’s fully ready to melt.

Eventually, Erestor murmurs, “Very well,” and walks around his desk. Glorfindel immediately rises, offering the chair, which Erestor takes. In a way, they look strangely like customer and server—Erestor still in his business clothes and Glorfindel casually half-undressed. He needs that to entice Erestor despite the rest of Glorfindel’s plan. 

Glorfindel comes right in front of Erestor, then climbs up and drops onto Erestor’s lap without any grace. His weight makes Erestor grunt, but the subtle wince is just what Glorfindel wants. He sets his hands on either of Erestor’s slender shoulders, deliberately snagging hair, tugging just enough to be annoying—it earns him another twitch and deeper frown. Then Glorfindel, lacking any music, picks his own rhythm, one wholly erratic, and he starts in on the worst dance he can manage.

For the first few seconds, Erestor just looks at him with knit brows and confusion, as though unable to imagine how anyone, especially an attractive elf with seniority at a sex club, could possibly be so _bad_ at lap dancing. But, in true Erestor fashion, that disbelief soon becomes irritation. A moment later, and Glorfindel’s shoved right off. He doesn’t bother to catch himself, just topples to the floor of Erestor’s office with a little, “Oof.”

Erestor continues to look at him for a moment, perhaps waiting on an explanation, until Glorfindel rubs the back of his head and mutters, “Alright, so I might not know what I’m doing... but you can teach me, right?”

This stiffens Erestor’s whole body. It’s what Glorfindel was aiming for, what he first devised, though the scene when differently in his head—he’d hoped Erestor would be at least a _little_ tempted, even through the awkward thrusts. Instead, Erestor just starts, “I can arrange for Bard to show—”

“No,” Glorfindel insists, “come on, don’t do that—it’ll just cost you more money for lessons I don’t need! You know I’m a fast learner; just show me how once, and then I can work on it at home...” Erestor wrinkles his nose, but Glorfindel can see the faint flicker in his eyes. “Please, just one—”

“Fine,” Erestor sighs, which actually surprises Glorfindel—he’d expected to have to beg a bit more. And he would’ve: in case this goes nowhere, he at least wants the memory of _Erestor in his lap_. Erestor shakes his head and mutters, “ _One_ demonstration.” Then he lifts out of the chair, walking aside and gesturing for it; Glorfindel picks himself back up to take the seat.

At first, nothing happens, other than Glorfindel struggling to hide his excitement. The anticipation prickles along his skin, and he just hopes he won’t find himself hard before Erestor starts, inevitably scaring Erestor away. He knows he’ll have to control himself well throughout it. He stares at Erestor while he waits, and Erestor visibly sucks in a breath, then nods to himself and steps up.

His hands fall to Glorfindel’s shoulders first, the way Glorfindel’s did, only slowly, sensually, palms pressing first against his chest, then sliding up, fingers threading carefully into his golden hair. Glorfindel’s breath hitches, and Erestor’s eyes immediately flicker to the movement; Glorfindel doesn’t know if that’s for show or not. Erestor hikes one knee up onto the side of the chair first, then arches forward as he lifts the second. None of his weight touches Glorfindel, though his body heat is already stifling. He brings them so close that Glorfindel can _almost_ feel it, but their chests don’t quite connect. Instead, Erestor’s hands massage his shoulders. Then Erestor’s hips roll back, and he grinds down _hard_.

Glorfindel bites the inside of his lip. He thinks he’ll have to make himself _bleed_ to get through this. Erestor’s eyes burn into his. Erestor starts rolling his hips repeatedly, long and full, steadily moving to the beat of some tribal rhythm in his head. His entire body follows each wave. He bites his bottom lip and chews it as he eyes Glorfindel’s body, lingering in all the right places, ogling freely like he wants to _devour Glorfindel whole_. Glorfindel memorizes that look, not to study, but to recall when he touches himself, because earning one night with Erestor is _always_ what he thinks of.

When Erestor’s hands leave Glorfindel’s shoulders, Glorfindel leans forward to follow them, but they push him back and smooth down his front, pausing to knead his pecs between the flaps of his open shirt. The rush of skin on skin makes Glorfindel’s brain cloud over. Erestor’s thumbs brush lightly over Glorfindel’s nipples, flicking once but doing no more, and then they continue down to trace Glorfindel’s hipbones, then wrench away. 

Erestor grabs his jacket and peels it right back, thrusting forward and stretching out his arms to exaggerate each movement. He makes a show of sliding it off his body, though the rest of him is still painfully clothed. Even though Glorfindel knows it won’t happen, he longs for Erestor to strip the rest away. He thinks of doing it himself—of leaning forward and catching Erestor’s shirt in his teeth, bunching it up and licking Erestor’s creamy skin, or maybe just ripping the fabric clean off and throwing Erestor to the floor. Maybe his desk. Glorfindel’s always wanted to fuck Erestor over that. When he first applied here, he thought he’d be bending Erestor over the polished surface within the week.

But Erestor’s a greater enigma than Glorfindel ever gave him credit for, and Glorfindel savours this while he can, just in case it’s his last. Erestor’s glorious at it. Every time he drags his crotch over Glorfindel’s, Glorfindel gets a little harder. There’s nothing he can think of or do to stop it. Erestor’s captured his eyes again, refusing to let him go. 

Then Erestor purrs in a voice like liquid sex, “You should do that on the stage.”

Glorfindel mutters a dazed, “What?” His hands are gripping the armrests so tight that his knuckles have paled—he wants to grab Erestor’s hips _so badly._

“Get hard,” Erestor coos. “People will give bigger tips if they can see a ripe package.”

Glorfindel quips, “Thanks for the tip,” and Erestor wryly smiles.

Erestor’s hard too.

Glorfindel realizes that suddenly, wondrously, then wonders if Erestor drew attention there on purpose. The feeling of Erestor’s hard cock grinding into his has gotten dizzying. He could almost cry when Erestor leans back from him.

But Erestor only does it to gather the hem of his turtleneck and start rolling it up, revealing bit by bit of his smooth, taut stomach, the dip of his pecs, and then finally his chest, flushed a little pink. With the fabric bunched beneath his armpits, Erestor lifts the middle to his mouth, which he opens wide and makes a show of biting, holding his shirt with it. Both his rosy nipples are slightly pebbled, and it’s all Glorfindel can do not to lunge down and suck them. He wants to kiss Erestor all over. The way Erestor keeps his top pinned between his lips is strangely adorable, his body wildly sexual, the constant movement of his hips intoxicating. His hands drop to his jeans, and he pops the first button open.

Glorfindel’s fairly certain he’s been blessed by the Valar themselves. He stares at Erestor’s crotch, waiting for the reveal, eyeing the few dark hairs above the waistline, and then Erestor opens his mouth to let his shirt fall back down. As it’s so tight, it doesn’t go far. 

It doesn’t matter. Erestor’s hands have flown to Glorfindel’s face, cupping it on either side, and suddenly Erestor is slamming into him. Glorfindel opens his mouth more out of surprise than anything, and Erestor takes the opportunity to fill him with tongue. Glorfindel’s startled yelp instantly dies into a moan. His hands dart up to Erestor’s hair, fingers daring to finally weave into the silken locks. Erestor groans into him, bucks into him, and flattens them together properly while kissing the life out of him.

The kiss is long, hard, ravenous, full of teeth and tongue and spit, and when Erestor finally parts them, Glorfindel’s panting and right on the edge. Their eyes connect again, too dilated to really say a thing. 

Then Erestor murmurs, “On second thought, you should stay behind the bar.”

“Am I a lost cause?” Glorfindel teases, though his voice doesn’t carry the joke—he’s too aroused to be coy. “With enough private lessons, I could probably learn.”

“I’ll give you them,” Erestor hisses, “But you’re still staying behind the bar.” Then he kisses Glorfindel as though _Glorfindel’s_ the living temptation that could double their revenue. 

Glorfindel thinks _finally_ and returns the kiss.


End file.
